


Father's Day

by This_is_The_Phantom_Lady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Absent Parents, Abusive Parents, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Family Secrets, Father Figures, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 02:16:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1801726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_The_Phantom_Lady/pseuds/This_is_The_Phantom_Lady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young woman from Watson's past contacts John asking him for a favour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father's Day

”John…” Her voice was low and barely a whisper as she spoke his name. Watson could hear the tears hiding behind her eyes even through the phone. The young woman was trying to stay strong. Trying to sound unaffected even. “I have it, I have the key…”

“Key?” John rubbed the back of his stiff neck with his hand tiredly and stifled a yawn. “Trish. What key?” he spurred her on, hearing her fall silent and take a deep breath to compose herself. He felt a little ashamed knowing he should have known what she meant.

“Mammy’s died… I am going to retrieve the documents containing my father’s identity… I… I could use a friend” She sounded several years younger than what she was. “I know I’ve been keeping away… and I don’t expect it from you, I just can’t do this alone”. John was now fully awake, a thousand thoughts running through his head. His paternal instincts towards the woman brought back to life in that instant. 

“I’ll be right over” he ran to his jacket the minute he hung up on her and was almost out of the door when a familiar and monotone voice stopped him. 

“Who died?” the curly haired consulting detective on the couch yawned as he looked at the shorter army doctor, making his deductions and had been throughout the brief phone call.

“A friend lost her mother, I’ve got to help her sort some things out”. There was a grave look on Watson’s face. 

“Friend?” Holmes questioned, obviously judging his choice of words. Watson took a breath and ignored Sherlock’s insinuations.

“Not now, I’ve got to go” and off he was, hearing the scoff coming from the couch.

 

…

 

Her leg was jiggling and her pale fingers were tapping nervously on the coffee cup. Her eyes steady on the key laying on the kitchen table. John drank his coffee watching her. She didn’t seem to have slept or eaten properly in days. 

“Thank you” she abruptly interrupted the painful silence. “I feel so stupid”. A smile crept on her lips as she said that. A nervous tick of hers. John shook his head.

“Trish, are you going to be okay? When did you last speak to her, to mammy?” he looked directly into her eyes but only managed to hold her gaze for a few seconds before she looked into the black liquid in front of her.

“3 years ago…” the smile vanished and she sucked her lip into her mouth. It wasn’t just her mammy she had not seen for all those years; John hadn’t even heard from her since what happened.  
“Why am I so nervous about this? It’s just a name…” she spoke to the coffee cup. Locking herself away from the world. 

John stifled the urge to pick up her chin with his finger and look into her big blue eyes. Force her to look at him as they spoke. She was to be handled with care, especially in this state.

“Best not drag it out” Watson knew it was best to get the deed done rather than have her worry herself to tears. She never cried even when she had good reason to. She nodded at him and looked into his eyes, agreeing with him. She took the cups and put them in the sink and with shaky hands put her bag over her shoulder.

“The key…“ John picked it up from the coffee table and handed it to her. She was subconsciously trying to avoid or at least delay it. John heaved a sigh and so did she as they left her small and cramped flat for the real world making it to the bank; her trailing behind him, following him like a lost puppy. 

The key burned in her hand the entire way. She was pressing it hard in her clenched fist. She had been glaring at it ever since she received it in the mail. Sent to her from her mother’s solicitor as per the will. The way she learned of her own mother’s death; she didn’t even have a clue how although she did have an idea. 

 

…

 

Trish. Short for Patricia most likely. A romantic involvement? No. Caring yes. Pfft! An unequal attachment by the tone of voice and the setting of John’s shoulders as he listened, that telltale look of horror and worry in his eyes. Surprise as well. He had not expected to hear from this particular female again.

Patricia… Patricia who? 

Sherlock laid on his back his eyes facing the ceiling but his mind going through his notes on John Watson’s background and sentimental attachments. Strange. He couldn’t find anyone who matched.  
Holmes frowned, the brim of his nose crinkling and greenish grey eyes narrowing. Had he managed to keep something from him? And why would he want to keep this specific involvement hidden? 

 

…

 

She was now clutching the document in her hands, creasing the paper that had turned the colour of tea through 24 years of lying idle in the deposit box. The letters danced around the page and she couldn’t make sense of any of it. Her heart was racing and she was short of breath. John’s hand instinctively rubbed her shoulder comforting her and he led her out of the bank and to a nearby café.

 

…

 

“Read it, please, would you?”. Her eyes were damp as she looked at the older man; handing him the piece of paper. 

“It’s a very personal document” he cleared his throat and sipped the tea he had ordered. 

“Please, John“. She pleaded with him “I know I have been a stranger for 3 years, but I am anything but…” she looked straight through him. Watson decided it was best to comply. He would do anything for her, his heart ached for her. 

“Dear Patricia” John started reading out loud. “You are receiving this letter upon my death in case I did not have the strength to tell you the truth you deserve to know in life.” His eyes watched her carefully as she listened intently.  
“Your father was not a bad man, in case you have ever had cause for such thoughts. He was a very kind person and I wish you had the good fortune to have known him as well.” As Watson continued to read a single tear rolled down her frozen face.

“Your father was married with children at the time when you were born and for fear of hurting his family he decided to step out of our life. It was not easy for me to agree to these terms but I hoped it would be an easier path for you to not know his identity when I agreed to never see him again. Nothing is stopping you from visiting him now I am no longer amongst the living. I hope you do what is best for you. I do not wish for you to be hurt” John stopped reading and swallowed hard. No tears followed the first one on her cheek. She was paralyzed. In her mind John’s voice turned into her mother’s. 

“His name?” her voice cracked. John was one of the few people she felt she could be weak around.  
The new information was jumping around in her brain. Her whole world seemed to have changed suddenly. All her theories and what they had caused her put to shame. This was the truth. Her story.

“Jack Phillip Murphy, CEO of ‘Roof and Top’” he answered her. She blinked and shrugged her shoulder. Somehow the name felt hollow to her. Something she had longed for through an entire life; now in her hands it felt so insignificant. What was she even going to use it for?

“Oh…” was all she could say. 

“Do you want to find him?” John wondered carefully handing her the document back. She neatly put it back in the envelope and tried to reseal it. As if wanting to conceal the fact that she now knew. Him being prepared to go with her; heck even punching the poor sod if it came to that.

She shook her head and was about to speak when a voice coming from right behind her startled her.

“No bother, he died 2 years ago” the male voice stated and her head snapped round to lay eyes on a tall, slender curly haired man in an ominous looking long black coat with the collar turned up. His pasty face made him look like the only right person to come with such a grim message.

“Sherlock!” John gasped angrily; his eyes burning as he glared at the detective who no doubt had been listening in for a while. 

“What?” his pasty face was filled with confusion, the ominous look fading instantly. 

“Timing…” Watson groaned; his eyes now focusing on the startled young Patricia. 

“Not good?” the tall dark stranger asked Watson who nodded in reply, breathing angrily. “… Sorry” the stranger’s apology was forlorn as he extended his hand curtly to her. “Sherlock Holmes” he let her know. She shook his nervously and nodded. 

“Patricia…” her voice was clearly showing off her mental state.

“Clara’s daughter?” Sherlock raised a brow. It had dawned on him very early on; merely from their body language and the way they spoke. He was rather pleased with himself finally having figured them out.

“I was…” her mouth was dry and she didn’t take his eyes off of Sherlock as he invited himself to sit down by their table. “How do you know my… father?” the word didn’t sit right in her mouth. Holmes shook his head.

“I don’t, I have a habit of following the obituaries” He seemed clearly annoyed to explain himself. She nodded.

“I see…“ She was sure he wanted her to be impressed but she was unable to muster any emotional outlets. 

“Wife 67 years of age, 4 legitimate children between the age of 32 and 22” The detective’s voice was monotone, lacking emotion.

“uh” she glared at him, She really didn’t need the information.

“Left a considerable amount to his family upon his death, which if you bothered to ask me wasn’t uneventful”

“Stop!” John and the young woman both said, hers was more of a saddened plea. John’s was stern and protective rather. “Sherlock, I mean it. Stop” John put his foot down and Holmes closed his mouth demonstratively. 

“Why do you care so much about her? Is she your last link to Harry? Is that it?” Sherlock frowned, getting defensive as his attempt to show off was shot down mercilessly. 

“I am a human being! That is why!” John was raising his voice. She on the other hand was zoning out. Locking herself away from the world once again. John was getting more than enough of his friend’s lack and refusal of understanding of human emotions.  
This time it was hurting someone who didn’t deserve it all. “Go home and continue sulking or go find yourself a case” Watson was pointing towards the door. He suddenly felt a soft hand on his that rested by his cup. Hers. Her now trying to calm him. 

“You’re not the boss of me!” It was such a childish outburst coming from a grown man. But Sherlock did mean it. 

“Let him” she spoke softly to John. She didn’t want to know any of this but somehow she feared regretting not hearing the things this man had to say. He did seem to have insight. 

“Are you sure?” John’s eyes darted from her to his friend and she nodded. A broad smile came upon Sherlock’s lips; unable to hide his excitement. 

“This was not written 24 years ago” Holmes snapped the envelope from her and ripped it open; producing the document and sniffed it. “Someone went to lengths to make this paper seem older, been dipped in tea to make it appear to be damaged by the years”

“Why?” The young woman couldn’t find sense in it. Why cheat with the dates? 

“The envelope is the original though, I’d say the document was changed after Jack Phillip Murphy’s death. He is not your father but a great way for ‘dear’ Clara to get out of the actual truth. She would have known you would not bother his family and simply accept this” The detective rolled his eyes when he mentioned her mammy. “And I see it wasn’t just Harry who was the drinker” This time he looked at John; whose eyes were trained on her. 

“How…?” had John told him?

“The signature, a constant tremor in her hand suggests a drinking habit” he pointed to the blue ink on the bottom of the paper.

“So, Harry left Clara because Clara was a worse drinker than her?” Holmes raised a brow at the doctor who shook his head.

“Harry left Clara because she couldn’t stand watching Clara get drunk off her head and smack her daughter about”. Patricia flinched; her blue eyes closing and she swallowed hard as John explained. 

“And that was why you left as well. I see” Sherlock was so matter-of-factly it almost hurt.

John’s hand took hold of hers and he looked at her with sorrow in his eyes.

“You don’t want to know who your father really was?” Sherlock wondered. Putting the document back on the table. She shook her head.

“John, can you forgive me for running away?” her eyes grew wet and he nodded. Ignoring Holmes

“I could never blame you” he pulled her close and allowed her to put her head on his shoulder. John hated the memories that came back to him of him holding her like that on very late nights; her holding an ice pack to various bruises but refusing to cry about it. 

She pulled away from John after a while. Sherlock had a frown on his face; hating the obvious display of sentiment.

“I should get home, Thank you for everything” she spoke tiredly. “I think I can sleep at last” she covered a yawn. John couldn’t anything but agree with her. As a doctor he knew sleep would work miracles for her.

“Stay in touch” Watson locked eyes with the young female. 

“I promise” she smiled weakly “And Mr Holmes, thank you” she turned to the dark haired male who looked actually surprised at the show of gratitude. He flashed her a forced smile and out of the door she was.

John cleared his throat just as she was out of earshot. Maybe Patricia didn’t want to know right now, but he had to know somehow. His eyes were on the paper she hadn’t cared taking with her. The paper her entire life had revolved around.

“Who is her father? Sherlock?” He asked the man who knew almost everything, despite so often being a drama queen about it.

“I have no idea” he simply shrugged his shoulder and took a bite of the biscuit left untouched on her plate. “But what does it matter, she has you” he spoke without barely having swallowed the biscuit and scrambled to his feet. More than ready to leave.


End file.
